Writer. Wig Wearer. Shame Buster.

Forty-Year-Olds Don’t Make Friends As Quickly As Four-Year-Olds

Before we left New Zealand, a friend of my Mother’s said, ‘You’re brave taking off to America with two small children.’ I attempted to smile, then burst into tears. I didn’t feel brave.

For the first time in my life, I made a travel decision based on what was best for somebody else – my family. I knew it was going to satisfy a life-long dream in the Dimple and the children would benefit greatly from a new adventure. I also knew it would be the trickiest for me.

It’s hard to feel like a modern woman: a determined, talented feminist, when you give up work, friends, your favourite house, city, view and family to become a mother in the woods.

Shit, it was hard. We arrived 14 days before summer camp started last year. 14 days before we lost the Dimple to hundreds of other children, who also benefit greatly from an adventure in the woods – and the closest they get to anything verdant is what Dad smokes.Sil Silverstream’s book (this isn't me though).One night I was reading Sil Silverstream’s, The Giving Tree, to Bob and the ‘Dactyl when I started to cry. I felt like that tree, giving away my trunk, branches and leaves until I was just a sad old stump, only good for sitting on. The Dimple walked in on me silently leaking and I tried to explain it later – I felt like I no longer had a life of my own. Everything was borrowed: the house, the furniture, the artwork, and the old clothes we pottered around in. Even the flowers in the garden weren’t mine, as the Camp Mother before me planted them.

I had forgotten it takes six months to adjust to a new place, and another six to fall in love with it.

All I could talk about before we left was whether I would get on with the Other Camp Mother. Oh boy, there was a lot riding on it. Two families, of four, in the middle of nowhere, living 300 metres apart. For six months of the year they would be our social circle.

The Dads had already worked together here, in the mid 90’s. That’s when they came up with the grand scheme to one day Run The Bloody Place. Now they are.

The children couldn’t be more evenly matched in age, and spirit. It took them about 23 minutes to become friends and together they are an amazing gang, encouraging each other to jump in deeper, prod higher, PICK IT UP AND SEE IF IT’S BREATHING, strip off the fastest and make a huge mess while Mum is on the loo.

That just left me and Mama K, as my children call her. Without Mama K, I would still be feeling stumpy. Oh, we had our ironing out to do, initially. The camp staff get taught every summer that within a new group there’s always a process of Form(ing relationships), Storm(ing as conflict arises), then Norm(alize as people settle into their roles).

Mama K and I formed easily. We had superbly matched senses of humour and parenting styles. Our storming lasted three weeks –not thunder and lightning just well placed hail– and now we have normed into a wonderful friendship. Not only do we get on, I genuinely adore her. We joke that we live on a commune; in reality that's the best way to live here . Except for the husband swapping part.I may be miles from civilization but I can’t hide from Mama K. She sees me sad, angry at my children, upset with The Dimple, and in my pyjamas some mornings. She also sees obsessions I try to hide from others, like sweeping the floor too much, a daily need to write and exercise, and a glass of wine around five. She’s seen all my faults, and possibly my ugliest trait: I struggle to share stuff, which is ridiculous, considering we don’t own anything here and one day we will leave with the same four suitcases we arrived with.

Mama K is the opposite. She doesn’t have a selfish cell in her body. When new things come into her house, she shares them immediately with us: toys, books, clothes, appliances, even cookies.

Ever so slowly, it’s rubbing off on me and I’m learning the more I share, the better I feel. Not to mention lighter. Recently I lent her my favourite boots, which was a huge step. Literally.

Where Mama K excelled was making me realize that to be happy in the woods, I had to get Out Of The Woods. Mother Nature is inspiring, calming and powerful, but I shrivel without interesting company. Mama K has unselfishly shared her friends, in local Mendocino and San Francisco to the extent that I have officially stolen nearly all of them as my own, and she doesn’t snarl –she even encourages it!No way stumpy!Heading into our second summer –where we lose the Dimple for another ten weeks– it feels great to have a posse of fantastic women around. My roots have grown down, my trunk and branches are reaching out and I no longer leak when I get to the stumpy bit in The Giving Tree.

My only concern, what with communal living, borrowed possessions, raising chickens (and pigs), and The Dimple cutting my hair, is that we might be turning into freakin’ hippies!

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3 thoughts on “Forty-Year-Olds Don’t Make Friends As Quickly As Four-Year-Olds”

LOVE “I had forgotten it takes six months to adjust to a new place, and another six to fall in love with it.” thank you, that inspires and reminds me!! This is the second time Ive cried reading your beautiful honesty, in the best possible way of course (smiling too)!There is something so moving about a woman who is openly growing, and you express it so elegantly, I truly enjoy reading your blog and think you have the stuff great writers are made of. I hope some day I might read of the outstanding adventures of Mama A and Mama K. I think the love with which you speak of your friend may have been the most touching. By the way one of my most favorite writers says “our homes are filled with things that collect dust.” You my dear, are one of the few true “free” people if you ask me.

Yay for the Mama K’s of this world! Pleased you’re feeling more settled and being a hippy might not be so bad: you could knit your own undies.:)
The great irony is that you’ll go through it all again when you come home. Oh irony. Oh life!

I know that feeling of crying over children’s books – ‘Where’s My Teddy’ use to do it for me….Annette once had to pretend it was entirely normal that adults cry when they read picture books! And still you inspire – oh the Giving Tree….

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About Me

Writer. Wig wearer. Bad dancer. Basically, extremely dangerous. When I’m not ranting here about something rummaging around in my head I’m a brand storyteller and speaker-up-er of messages bombarding young girls on body image.

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